i was dead then alive, she was like wine turned to water then turned back to wine, our lives are not our own...

echoes in my head

a chest quenched by the sussurus of a steady drone, full of fluid gilded the lion's pride sloshes off the starboard bow, the perfect storm in a emerald vile, remind me i am among the living when plays the quartet the prelude no. 1 i am set to sea.


how to shed the skin of a jaundiced love.

the convoluted matrix of over structured, read and re-read facts, swell, swol, swollen beneath the cathedral walls, arched and poised as if to defy the anchor that weighs them down, a gravity of sepulchral occurrences--the love song of alphred j prufrock. for we measure coffee the same. and any up-goings must come down, so what do the words woven into the midnight shawl mean if the widow has lost her strength to carry on? smoothing surface, fill the crevasses with a poisonous science of religiosity, of facts and figures, candid figures of a reality that exists only as an ambiguous void where we share only time, nothing to speak of what lies beneath your skin. so sit quiet and unmasked, unfettered with the daily doings of a more joyous song, for four and a half years of silence changes a man. bring me many more cruel, ubiquitous specter, for i live eyes closed, bring on the tides, what is living other then finding the sorrow beneath every shining soul? what a nightmare, what a travesty, what a gift.